A Burp on the Radar (A Vortex Tale)

I've been promising a week of Tales from the Vortex, and folks, it is time for me to deliver.

I kicked this off last week and I shared this naked story awhile back, and this week, will attempt to fill all five days with posts that describe my best various and sundry dating tales.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

This story is an oldie but goodie. It happened when I was a junior in college. I didn't even realize the extent of the horrors of dating. I didn't yet know of the Vortex, and I certainly hadn't experienced it. I'd dated a few guys in college, including my high school boyfriend, and hadn't yet realized that guys would say all kinds of things and then fall into a hole never to be heard from again.

I had a lot to learn.

His name was Matt. I'd been introduced to him by a sorority sister, and I had heard the stories. I knew he was older and had a reputation for dating a lot. I was flattered he chose me—and had fun being the center of attention at Sunday breakfast in the sorority house. Girls wanted to hear stories about him, how much fun were we having? and who did we hang out with the night before?

Our "relationship" was brief, but we had fun. I knew he wasn't the man of my dreams, but he taught me how to enjoy the attentions of someone besides my high school boyfriend. He was loud, funny, silly and smart. When we went out, people wanted to be near him. He was known.

Things were going well, and we had had a fun few months hanging out. I was asked to go with him to his fraternity weekend in the mountains of North Carolina, and we doubled with my friend and her boyfriend. After a great weekend, we were pulling back into Athens, and had just turned on to Milledge Avenue, right by my house. Matt was driving, and I was in the front seat, gleaming with the glow of attention, attraction and excitement.

He burped loudly, and didn't excuse himself. All of us laughed—in that Will Ferrell stupid humor kind of way—and then I jokingly said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be trying to impress me at this stage?"

The car's atmosphere changed. The air grew cold. Not a sound was made.

I'd clearly made some sort of dating faux pas, but for the life of me, I wasn't sure what it was.

We pulled into the sorority parking lot, and my friend and I got out. Matt gave me a brief, yet chilly hug, and we said goodbye.

I didn't hear from him for about 10 days, which in college time, was the equivalent of 10 years. When your social life didn't just revolve around weekends, you saw people more often.

I asked my friend, the girl who'd witnessed the freeze-out in the car, and she shrugged it off claiming he was just busy.

This guy was something like a 6th year senior. How busy was he, exactly? It was doubtful.

The following Thursday, I saw him at the local hangout, the one where you got to take the previously purchased 22-ounce plastic mug with you and for $3 you could fill the thing up with ice cold draft beer. I approached him gingerly, with a smile.

His reaction was clear. His face didn't break into the smile he'd normally given me.

It was over. I knew it, and so did he. Inquisitively, and frankly, naively, I asked him what was wrong? He shrugged, and said casually, "I just am not feeling it."

Uh, ok. I thought we were joking about a burp, but maybe that was just me.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I never saw him again.

VORTEX.

Not two weeks later, though, I heard that he was dating someone and it was "serious." He eventually married her and had kids with her. I haven't really thought of him much since, and I do realize that he wasn't really in the Vortex.

He just wasn't interested. And, considering his likable qualities were most often enhanced by him drinking 48 PBRs out of a can, I don't really mind.

But it taught me one thing.

Men will close up, walk away and fall off the planet if they so choose. And you will be left wondering.

It was a tough lesson for a rookie dater, but it paved the road of many, many Vortex tales to come.

Oh, and I'm still not a fan of wild burpers who don't excuse themselves. I can't help it.

The Weekend of Fs

Like the snowbirds in January, I'm heading South!

Even though it isn't quite winter yet, this Chicago gal is flocking southward for the weekend.

Brett and I alight on Atlanta this weekend for Family, Friends, Football and Food and I can't wait. It seems to be the F weekend. Let's examine:

F#1: Family
We will be staying with my parents, and he'll be meeting my Dad. Let's hope the men in my life get along, and are on their best behavior. I'm sure it will go smoothly...but in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I have visions of my Dad answering the door in overalls polishing a shotgun. I have visions of him asking, "What are your intentions with my daughter?" or asking Brett to detail the branches on his family tree, and Brett flushing redder than my shoulders after a long day in the sun.

My Family Tree?
I get to meet my sister's darling new boyfriend, George, this weekend. I've heard so much about him, seen so many photos, and been on the receiving end of some great stories of their time together, and now I get to put him to the test in real life. What kind of questions are the responsibility of the older (questionably wiser) sibling? Do tell, I'm curious. And taking notes.

F#2: Friends
As you've read in many a post, I have a great group of friends with whom I've been linked (for better or worse!) since we were all single digits, wearing braces and rookies in all things life. We've experienced highs (graduations, marriages, babies, birthdays, new houses, new jobs and great haircuts) and lows (deaths, moving away, car accidents, illness, job losses, heartbreaks and our favorite shows going off the air) together. All while managing to keep things interesting (read: Posse Grudge Matches every so often) and fun (read: vacations to foreign lands together).

The Posse, on our best behavior.
I will have the fortunate privilege to re-introduce Brett to many friends that he met in June when we were in Costa Rica, and introduce him for the first time to many new faces. I'm not making a PowerPoint deck to brief him this time (yes, I did), so he's on his own. He can call them all "Buddy" and "Dude" and it will go just fine.

F#3: Football
We will be caravanning east from Atlanta, heading towards the cutest little big college town in the world, Athens Georgia. I love nothing more than showing off this amazing gem to a virgin visitor. Especially in the fall, with all of the grasses green, the leaves changing and the winds lightly blowing. Campus will be at her best. I can't wait to exit off Highway 316 and revel at the new construction and say "That wasn't there when I was here!" a hundred times, to tread softly across the North Campus Quad, to duck behind the East Campus Railroad bridge for a moment in the shade, to drive slowly down Milledge Avenue gawking at the antebellum mansions we Greeks called home, to hoof it over to the new(ish) Student Center Quad to marvel at the new developments there, to stand on Gillis Bridge looking into the end zone of Sanford Stadium where the hedges lie in wait.

Heaven on Earth.
And, there my friends, will be the game. The Georgia Bulldogs vs. the Tennessee Volunteers. We at UGA hate the color orange for a reason (UT, UF, Auburn, etc.) and it will be a Red Sea like no other on Saturday. I long to hear Brett laugh as I call the Dawgs. Despite the season's one disappointment (a memory I'm trying to erase), the Dawgs make us proud, and the SEC colleges know how to tailgate properly to prepare for it. It will be glorious. Go Dawgs!

There is still an outside chance that we'll be able to see the Chicago Bears take on the Atlanta Falcons in the Georgia Dome on Sunday. Not sure if my sister's ticket contacts are going to pull through, but wouldn't that be cool? And, oddly enough, both teams are in first place in their respective division, so it could even be a good game. Go Bears!

F#4: Food
Living in the country's third largest city, one would think we'd have access to everything. Sadly, this is not true for a few critical items of culinary deliciousness. Sweet tea, for example. Can't get it here. In fact, they think you're weird if you ask for it. McDonald's is trying, but who goes to McDonald's for a cold one? I'm hearing rumor of a new treat in the south called Sweet Tea Vodka (STV for short) that is making its rounds. I plan to test it and will share my thoughts. If I have any that are worth repeating.

If only I had a porch and a rocker.
And then there's Chick-fil-A. I've talked about my love for this fast-food but not-fast-food outlet before. I just can't understand why it would be so hard to franchise them here in the city limits of Chicago? Ponder that while I dream about the waffle fries, the lemonade and the lightly breaded, not fried, chicken sandwich. Or chicken biscuit, if you're there early enough in the day. You can practically taste it, can't you?

We may also have a chance to stop by The Varsity, on our way through downtown, tomorrow before we do the touristy things I have planned, or on Sunday on our way back to the airport. Nothing like leaving town with a full belly of hot dogs and french fries at one of the country's oldest drive-throughs, smelling like grease all the way back on your Airtran flight.

--

As you can see, I'm ready. Real photos and stories will be shared when I return.

I think this will be one great "F-ing" weekend. Probably NOT the example they'd use on Sesame Street on the "F" day.

Holy Cow!

Holy cow, what a week.

Crazy politics, a wild ride on the markets, an absolutely terrible weekend for the Bulldog Nation (and Gator/Badger/Trojan Nations, respectively) resulting in a shakeup in the Top 25 polls, and the White Sox may join the Cubs in the playoffs if tonight's tie-breaker game goes well.

And it's only Tuesday.

Since sports seem to dominate the news (immediately following the news that matters, you know, like to our wallets, our health and our nation's reputation), I decided that we must be doing okay.

If we still can find the extra cash, reserves of passion and boosts of energy it requires to be a sports fan, even in these trying times, then I believe (naively, stubbornly) that we are still alright as a nation.

If we can still dress up like this:








and hang on to some shred of hope that this year will be different, then we must still have heart. And, heart is what it takes to be a sports fan these days.

Especially when your team goes into the season ranked #1 and falls in week 5 to a conference opponent in a decidedly ugly game.

Especially when the "voice of football" in your head retires and it just doesn't seem quite right without him up in the box.

Especially when your city has two teams that may make it to the playoffs, and you're curious what will happen to the city when the north/south side rivalry really heats up in a head-to-head battle across 3 miles of urban terrain.

Especially when you watch your team, with its sorry quarterback and supposedly dominant defense, give up two games in a row in the fourth quarter (or overtime) and you have to hang your head in shame, again.

Especially when your team hasn't won the world series in 100 years and it would just be so nice not to be famous for blowing it.

It is tough to be a sports fan these days.

Call us stubborn. Call us ignorant. Call us in denial. Call us losers. Call us ridiculous. Call us overrated. Call us against the odds. Call us down-and-out.

I'm still game. We believe.

Go Dawgs! Go Cubs! Go Bears! Okay, fine. Go Sox!

Then and Now

A lot can be (and has been) said about Google, MySpace, LinkedIn and Facebook, and much of it can center on cyber-stalking, deviance and other negative things involving sad, pathetic, creepy, middle-aged men sitting alone in their bedrooms in various states of undress.

This story is NOT about that.

These days, when I think of these Internet-based search and social networking tools is this: reunions. I have been fascinated at how these sites have enabled reunions to happen that I thought would never be.

Take yourself back to 1987.

Madonna was just getting started, Dirty Dancing was at the box office and Baby Jessica was the talk of every news program in the country. Reagan and Gorbechav were meeting for the first time and gas was $.95 a gallon.*

I was 11 years old, living at the end of a hilly street in a safe and friendly subdivision in a suburb about 20 miles northeast of Atlanta. Having moved in at the cusp of the city's boom, we'd watched the neighborhood grow and change. We'd watched as it evolved from a handful of houses on dirt roads on an old lady's farm land to a thriving community of friends and neighbors, over 100 houses, boasting a pool and tennis court facility whose opening was the biggest thing we'd known in the hood.

Life was good.

We played Kick the Can and Ghost in the Graveyard with the neighborhood kids until we heard our parents ringing bells or calling us home for dinner. The street lights were our guides home, and we waved goodbye to our buddies knowing we'd see them on the school bus in the morning. Unless it was summer, and then it would be back in the streets or on the easement playing softball, driveway basketball or tag until dinnertime came around again.

Crickets were our soundtrack and bikes were our mode of transportation.

I was lucky enough to have four or five good girl friends in the neighborhood, all roughly my age, with whom I could enjoy the escapades of a grade-school goodie two-shoes kid. We traded stickers, collected jelly bracelets, braided each other's hair and re-enacted musicals like Annie and Grease in the basement with dress-up clothes and mom's makeup.

We rode the bus to school together, protecting one another from the neighboring bully girls who mocked us out of envy, for our 'hood was nicer and newer than theirs, and so were our clothes. Our moms drove us in their Dodge Caravans to Six Flags, Fuddrucker's or the movies. We cheered each other on in swim meets, and flounced around the court in our new tennis skirts at the beginning of each season.

Life was good. I had friends and we had fun. And, one of these dear friends was Marcie. She was darling and little and sweet and pretty. I towered over her.

(If you're new here, I'll just say it. I'm tall, and have been extraordinarily tall for my age since, well, forever. Read this post and you'll get a hint of what that's like).

I remember doing all of the things I mention above with Marcie (and others) at my side. We played, planned, danced, rode, traded, sang, dressed-up and knocked around. We had good clean fun.

And then she moved. To Texas. Which, to a fifth-grader, felt like she moved to Siberia.

We lost touch, as kids do. We didn't email (didn't exist), we didn't text (didn't exist) and we didn't call (we were 11). We didn't even pen pal for that long, if at all (short attention spans).

And then, about 8 weeks ago, her name came into my mind out of the blue. Like it was planted there, it just popped into my head and I wondered where she was, and how she was doing, and what her life had been like in the 20 years since we were just kids in the south playing games.

So, I looked her up. Yep - I Googled her. And found her LinkedIn profile. And learned that she'd gone to Indiana University, and then moved up to Minneapolis to work as a buyer for a major corporation. Minneapolis? She's close! Then, I went a step further and looked her up on Facebook.

VOILA!

There she was, 20 years later, staring right back at me, with the same smile and freckles and energy as I remembered.

Only hesitating for a second, I emailed her and we started exchanging messages about where we were, what life was like now, and how long it had been. And then, she got offered a job in Chicago. Two weeks after we'd started talking.

And, she took it. And moved here. Five blocks from my house.

So, we reconnected and it was like no time had passed. We didn't trade stickers or share jelly bracelets, but the connection was there. We reminisced at how silly we'd been and laughed about how silly we still were.

Proof is below.

Then.
Now.
This Internet thing is really handy, no? Welcome to Chicago, Marcie. We're glad you're here.

*ouch.

Born to Tailgate: 2008 Remix

Uga V with a new fan
In honor of the University of Georgia's home opener today—Go Dawgs!—I figured I'd repost an oldie but goodie.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

The irony was that my Atlanta friends found this re-posted (way back when) on several fan sites all over the country, so it is clear that good things (topics, not my writing), spread fast.

So, in light of the game tomorrow, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate
By: Colleen Snell

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready?

Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

Rotting Peaches?

Last night I got together with a handful of girls for a lovely dinner on Julia's roof-deck. Julia and her husband live in Lincoln Park, so the view from up there is fantastic—brownstone roofs in the foreground, with the Chicago skyline at night in the back. The planters were overflowing with blooms and the music drifted at just the right volume from the surround sound speakers, providing the perfect backdrop to our girls night conversations.

We settled around the patio table with dinner of grilled steak and shrimp kabobs, fresh summer salads and sparkling rose wine, and finished with a homemade peach pie a la mode (yes, she's an incredible hostess), it was nothing short of fantastic. Catching up with these girls is only a quarterly occasion, if that, as most of them are married with children, and schedules are just hectic.

We recalled fond memories of other gatherings, some to watch the UGA football games (as most of the group are alum) and others to celebrate a new baby or a marriage proposal. Basically, we're a group of Georgia Peaches who are a long way from home.

One evening in particular was mentioned, from about 2 years ago, as someone remembered there being a few "new" girls there that time, but not one of us could really place it. It was a chorus of, "Oh, yeah. Who were they?" and "I think I was here?" and "Was it here at Julia's? Or someone else's house?" as we tried to piece together the story, and recall when/where/who the new girls were. And how they fit in.

While mocking ourselves for being old and already losing our memory, one girl said, "What are we, 80?" and we all laughed. And then sighed in unison, because it is already happening. Details are slipping, events are blurry and memories are clouded. When did this happen? Is it age? Are we too selfish to remember something that was just on the periphery of our life, rather than central to its plot?

Tangent: My mother swears that as she crept (delicately, and of course recently) towards "middle age," she started losing these types of details. She is so good with directions and recalling past clients, but sometimes a name or a word will just slip her mind. Ironically, though, she can almost always, without fail, recall the first letter.

As in, "I have no idea where I know that woman from, but I know her name starts with an M." Or something like that. Her biggest fear is that this will continue, and worsen, as she continues to age. She's terrified that one day she'll walk into a cocktail party at the neighborhood clubhouse and say, "Hi, My name is E. And this is my husband, R."

When she told this story we were all in fits of giggles just picturing it. And acting it out. Wine may or may not have been involved.

Back to the story at hand.

No matter what's to blame, be it nature, time, environment or the alcohol served at the party, we never could recall those women. And, it was a funny realization. Especially when Darby inquired, while scrunching up her brows and thinking hard, "Was that the time that I brought Leroy (aka Leroy Brown, her bulldog) over as a puppy?"

We all thought hard, nodded uncertainly, and honestly, didn't know for sure. The entire memory/lack thereof was punctuated most profoundly when Stephanie piped in with, "Oh! I remember that night! I brought my ham dip."

And, there you have it.

We don't remember the two lovely young women that had joined us for an entire evening's game watching festivities, but we remembered the ham dip.

I couldn't help but chant Leroy and Ham Dip all the way home. It sounded like a dirty joke in the making, or an alternative country band at the very least.

Admit it: right now you have "Bad, bad Leroy Brown. The baddest man in the whole damn town. Badder than old King Kong. And meaner than a junkyard dog." rattling around in your head. No? Well, now you do.

Home State Shame?

I get pretty ridiculed at work for being from Georgia. Do I hide the fact? No. And I suppose that is my problem...

My clever colleague thinks it is hilarious to give me a lot of grief for having grown up in the south. Not only does he shout "Go Packers!" every time he sees my Georgia flag (featuring the super-G logo that resembles Green Bay), but he takes it a step further.

He manages to print out and tape every ridiculous, embarrassing, silly and totally weird news article that involves a Georgia resident on my door. Today he found one and handed it to me saying it was something I'd left on the printer.

I laughed, but secretly wondered...is this what the world thinks of us?

See his latest stabs:

Georgia woman collects outhouses.

Georgia men claim hairy, frozen corpse is Bigfoot.

Armless Georgian head-butts man to death.
(He was later cleared from murder charges—apparently the head-butting sent the victim into cardiac arrest).

I don't have a leg to stand on in defending my home state when this type of stuff continues to make national news.

As a related sidenote: with all this talk of (The Republic of) Georgia in the news, I even heard one woman on the bus say, "Wow—I had no idea that Georgia was under attack. Did they come all the way over from Russia?"

I still wasn't sure she was as confused as she apparently was. Until she kept going with, "Do you think Aunt Lynn in Atlanta is alright?"

Oh. Dear. God.

It is small comfort to know that there are idiots everywhere. Not just in my home state.

It Still Makes Me Blush

I've been asked to further explain the story about Jimmy Connors that I mentioned in yesterday's post.

As a proud storyteller, I'll expound. And, I'll ridiculously embarrass myself in the process. Be patient, I have to start at the beginning. Heck, grab a soda.

It was the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing the "right thing" and getting a summer internship at an ad agency. During the interview for a boring account service position, the guy looked at my resume and said, "You have an awful lot of sports on your resume. Would you rather be doing that?" I looked around, and half-nodded, insecurely, and asked what he meant. He explained that they had a sports marketing division that needed some help.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, I go to work for this guy John. As his right hand gal. He's the VP of Sports Marketing, and I even got my own little office. Which was big, considering I was 21-years old and an intern. Two weeks into the job, he pulls me into his office and admits that he's leaving the agency.

Uhm, what? Couldn't have told me that three weeks ago before I sacked any chance I had at working in the agency's account service department?

He offers for me to come with him. In the ten-second pause, he then spits out, "I'll pay you three times whatever they're paying you."

Okaaaay.

Sign. Me. Up.

Off we go, into the Jerry McGuire-like situation that entailed a fancy schmancy office space in the King Plow Arts Center in Atlanta. We frantically furnish the place and get started.

We were scheduled to bring the Nuveen Tour of Champions to Atlanta. The tournament, held nationally now under another name, featured senior men's tennis stars like Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg, and others, was coming to Atlanta and we were in charge of promoting, selling, and running the event. It was nothing short of a HUGE FREAKING DEAL and it was just me and John. I even flew to Pennsylvania to train on the Ticketmaster program. It was my first business trip, and John made me GO ALONE.

I survived, and the event week arrived.

The hardest part, physically, of the job included what I affectionately called "schlepping ice." This was code for all of the event operations that had to be done that week—driving a golf cart, wearing a walkie-talkie, holding a clipboard, and moving heavy stuff from one location to the other, telling people where to put things and where to hang signs and where to park your huge food van and where to NOT park your gigantic beverage truck. Oh, and moving ice from one tent to another in the blistering Georgia heat.

The event was fun, though not sold out, and Jimmy Connors won as he was expected to do. The Atlanta Athletic Club was a beautiful host site, and the weather cooperated. My favorite player was Mansour Bahrami, the Iranian entertainer on the court. His mustache alone was worth taking a photo with him. I did. I'd show it here, but my bad haircut makes it look like I have a mullet, and I can't bear that on top of what is to happen next.

Jimmy wins, and heads to the clubhouse to sit and relax. As the crowds leave, my operations cohort and I (there was another company on hand to help facilitate the event, aka "schlep ice" with me) go into the clubhouse to check on the players and see if there was anything they needed. Mostly, we wanted to mingle with them. On the job, of course.

I'm in front of my operations cohort (we'll call him Brad), and Brad holds the door open for me and I enter first. Masking my shyness (that I've since overcome), the 21-year old Colleen says, with a smile, "Can I get you guys some beer to celebrate?" before I notice that Jimmy is sitting with John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg, two of the other three most famous men's tennis players. Ever.

They all accept my beer offer, of course, and ask for me to bring it to them as they had their aching knees elevated. Brad and I exit the clubhouse, make our way in the pitch-black dark (now that the tennis stadium lights were off) in the parking lot to the beer truck. Brad hoists me up inside, and then climbs up after me. We don't have flashlights, and walkie-talkies don't do much in the way of illuminating the truck's inside. I fumble around for beer, find a case that still feels cold, and push it towards the truck door. Brad does the same with his case. We jump down, and schlep the cases towards the clubhouse.

Brace yourself. You're going to be embarrassed FOR ME.

I jimmy the door open with my foot, hold the door with my butt, swing the case around into the door frame, and walk in, leaving Brad to fend for himself. He makes it inside just in time to hear Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe bellow, "YOU BROUGHT US NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER?!?!"

I look down, and lo and behold, I'm holding a case of Sharp's beer. At that age, I didn't know MGD from PBR from Natty Light (I was a pretty lame drinker) and wasn't aware that the brand I found in the darkened truck was sold to pregnant ladies, old men who just "liked the taste" and others who didn't imbibe in the real thing anymore.

I blushed purple. Stammered a dorky explanation. Set the case on a nearby bar. Turned around, mumbling that I'd go find something else.

And, proceed to trip down the stairs leaving the clubhouse.

Yep. Insult—meet Injury.

I must admit, when I returned from the beer truck with a replacement ALCOHOL-FILLED case of beer, the guys were really nice, and made me feel marginally less stupid for the double whammy of embarrassing moments. And, signed a bunch of cool stuff for me.

And, asked me for my phone number at college because "we really would like to come to a UGA football game this fall." And, Jimmy Connors did actually call me and ask for tickets to the Georgia v. Tennessee game that fall. I hooked him up, and he didn't show. Sent me a basket of food and alcohol-filled wine to apologize for the no-show.

I saved his number on caller id the entire year.

At Least it Would Be Quiet

As a single woman, I am often on the listening side of many hilarious kids stories from my friends with children. I think they view me as the objective outsider. Or as someone who can sympathize with their plights by the absence of any like it in my life. Who knows, but I do know that I love hearing them.

My appetite for the funny, interesting tidbits ranges from curious ("he said THAT to the store clerk?") to the ill-informed ("I thought she was old enough to sit facing forward in the car.") to the downright aversive ("you had to clean WHAT off of the bathroom walls?").

It is similar, in a way, to the manner in which I carry on a conversation with those who have had the privilege to travel to foreign countries I've not yet visited. I want the details, love the anecdotes, need a mental image, would appreciate a photo album, will laugh at your trials, will share in the glories, and quite am often glad I wasn't there to witness it first hand.

Today's story is provided by my dear friend Jenny. You probably know her from the cleverly crafted comments she adds to this site. Usually her comments rival the original post for humor content, but I won't hold it against her. See her latest work on yesterday's blog about crayons. Brilliant.

This morning, Jenny's kids were playing nicely and quietly in the other room, giving mom a few rare minutes of peace while she surfed the web, catching up on her favorite bloggers. The silence was pierced by her daughter, we'll call her MB, screaming at a fever pitch, "GIVE IT BACK GIVE IT BACK."

Jenny, from the other room, pleaded her son, we'll call him B (to protect his "innocence"), to please give it back so that fortheloveofgod she would stop screaming. B comes running out of the room laughing in a devilish big brother way. Holding nothing. MB is chasing him, still yelling for him to give it back.

A tad bit exasperated, and curious what had incited the matter, Jenny asked them what the heck is going on. Defiantly, MB told Mama that B stole her cake. Jenny was baffled.

There is no cake. It's a pretend, imaginary cake.

That, instead of giving it back to his little sister, B proceeds to smash. MB falls apart. Jenny, in supreme 'Mama Fix It' mode, has to beg B to please put the cake back together and give it back to his sister. My dear friend Jenny swears she stood there arguing about said cake for at least 5 minutes.

Upon hearing this story, our other friend Liz asked if the kids were doing shrooms and Jenny thought no, they're not. Because if they were, they would relax, quit screaming and stare at the shadows. We won't let Jenny buy any. Besides, we don't know a good dealer.

When I was told the story, I complimented Jenny on raising her children with such vivid and active imaginations.

To which she replied, "Sometimes I wish they'd imagine meditation or, say, sign language."

And I thought being here at work in front of a computer was taxing. At least my co-workers aren't in the other room fighting over imaginary baked goods.

Which makes me kindof hungry...come over here with that cake, wouldja?

The Fever

I officially have spring fever.

Growing up in Atlanta, April was the month of fabulous 75+ degree days and eternal sunshine. I'm sure it rained quite a bit, but those soggy days don't stick in my memory quite like the warm days where the sun is blinding, the birds are chirping, and the car windows are left down all day.

April in Atlanta is that perfect time, where it isn't yet July and your back isn't yet sticking to the car seats. You can go all day with the house windows open, no heat and no AC, and it just feels nice. The grill gets a good workout, and the back deck is the new living room.

Baseball games are the background music to a Saturday afternoon, and long naps are required, commenced long before the 7th inning stretch. The mosquitos haven't yet found their way to your backyard, and the trees are starting to look green again. Sunday mornings are complete with the sound of lawn mowers firing up and doing their thing all across the neighborhood, and kids play football in the street stopping only to yell "CAR!" as the neighbors come home from Pike's Nursery to plant the pansies in the empty pots on the front porch.

With the added hours of daylight, the dinnertimes start later, and the family is all smiles. Placemats are dragged out to the back deck, where the wrought iron table is wiped clean of pollen for the feast off the grill. Screen doors are oiled and prepped for a long summer of use, and flip flops and sandals replace the boots of the earlier months.

The flowers are all in full bloom, and the softball leagues are out practicing. People know that this is the best time of year, save for September when the football season begins, and take advantage of it. April in Atlanta is spectacular, and I do think it is a gorgeous month. One of the best.

On the flip side, April in Chicago is a temperamental woman.

Some days she's lovely—encouraging all residents to abandon their down coats and woolen mittens for a light spring jacket and a pair of Ray Bans—and the city sidewalksare full of families pushing strollers, couples holding hands, and kids playing games. Cornhole games are dragged to the front yard, and the Cubs jerseys are worn with pride. Cold beer is poured into red Solo cups as the gang predicts a winning Cubs season, dripping with optimism and hope. The tulips planted by the tens of thousands that line Michigan Avenue finally come into bloom, and you are shocked by the range of colors that exist there. Tourists fill the streets, but the wind is light, so you don't mind.

The anticipation of summer in Chicago is reason enough to get out of bed in April. You can almost taste the warm months, and the sounds of the street festivals begin to flood your mind. You know that summer is close, and the winter clothes are down to the last few wearings before shoving them to the back of the closet for a few glorious months. The eve of summer is almost as good as the three months that this season gets here in the Midwest. People know that time in the sun is a cherished, special thing, and no one here wants to miss a moment of it. Pushing the season, the beaches and lake paths are full of people grasping onto the few fantastic and unseasonably warm days here, and you can almost convince yourself that there will not be any more questionable days.

Then April turns nasty, revolts against the beauty of spring, and has a cold flash for a few days, making you wish you hadn't jumped the season and pulled off the boots. The down coat seems more appropriate on these days, but you just can't bring yourself to wear it, so you just go cold. Clothing is confusing on these crabby April days, and summer feels a long time away. Fans at Wrigley look more like fans at a Bears game, bundled and shivering against the harsh wind off Lake Michigan. Optimism wanes but hope remains. The plants you eagerly bought and potted into your balcony flower boxes wilt and look sad, while the frost glistens on the deck rails. The windows haven't yet been cleaned and the remains of winter are everywhere. The park is sad and lonely, and the beaches call out for visitors who are brave enough to go there.

So we wait.

I believe that April in Chicago is a true test of the human spirit. Teases you just enough to wet your appetite, then takes it all back and reminds you that it won't be consistently beautiful weather until the middle of June. Shows you just what you can expect, and then makes you hold out for the reality of it all.

But, it sure is worth it when it arrives. I remain optimistic, full of hope, and a tad bit chilly without my down coat.

Only in Georgia

My sister gets the credit for this one. The above photo is the Check In/Out list at Winder Barrow High School in northeast Georgia and she has friends who work there. The teachers must sign in and out to leave the campus, and only in Georgia would this appear on the list.

The second to last entry features a lady who signed out not to go to the doctor or on an errand, but because her “Goat Is Out.”

The only goat on the loose here in Chicago is the one who apparently is still stalking the Cubs with a curse. This baseball season is 100 years since the Cubs last won the World Series.

I think this is our year. The Goat is Out.

All Together Now

I know that this post is about 6 months too late, making me a total loser and completely out of it.

I don't care.

I was at a bar this weekend and the Soulja Boy song came on, you know the one...the one that has the terrible lyrics and the annoyingly catchy tune?

Well, it has been my observation that this song immediately makes the whitest guy think he can dance. Doing that choregraphed electric slide line dancing thing that was so big in the early to mid-nineties. Like at weddings.

I know the rapper has some dance associated with this song, and I have even seen my beloved Georgia Bulldog football team doing it on the field mid-game when the song played over the stadium speakers, but at least those boys can move.

These guys Saturday night could not.

I had horrible flashbacks of middle school dances. Cafeterias draped with streamers. Carnation corsages that were kept in the fridge. Kissing a date with a mouth full of braces. Fuschia taffeta dresses with butt bows.

I think I need therapy.

Born to Tailgate

In light of the Bowl Championship Series national title game tomorrow, I have been watching, and talking about, college football a lot lately.

That's just fine by me.

I also have been asked to recount the stories from my college tailgating days. Which brings me to this post.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

So, in light of the big game tomorrow, where my beloved SEC will take on, again, the Big Ten's Ohio State, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready? Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.